


Merry Christmas, Mr Holmes!

by Phoenix_Rose



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Gen, Post-Book A Study in Scarlet, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:47:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28296993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenix_Rose/pseuds/Phoenix_Rose
Summary: If my dear Holmes thought to look from his chemistry table to my writing desk and ask which narrative I have chosen to record today, I have no doubt that I would - quite quickly - find my pen confiscated and my scrawlings confined to the deepest centre of the fire currently engaged in a losing battle against the winter weather on the other side of the room.  Fortunately for us, however, Holmes is not - has never been - in the habit of reading these little accounts of our adventures until they are already published.  Unless, of course, I present them to him ahead of time for consultation or clarification.(This is not, I must stress, a common occurrence.  I have no wish to hear myromanticismandtruly, dear boy, some most grievous exaggerationsso thoroughly lampooned.)I am confident, therefore, that it shall survive to reach the desk of my publisher atThe Strand.
Kudos: 7





	Merry Christmas, Mr Holmes!

If my dear Holmes thought to look from his chemistry table to my writing desk and ask which narrative I have chosen to record today, I have no doubt that I would - quite quickly - find my pen confiscated and my scrawlings confined to the deepest centre of the fire currently engaged in a losing battle against the winter weather on the other side of the room. Fortunately for us, however, Holmes is not - has never been - in the habit of reading these little accounts of our adventures until they are already published. Unless, of course, I present them to him ahead of time for consultation or clarification.

(This is not, I must stress, a common occurrence. I have no wish to hear my _romanticism_ and _truly, dear boy, some most grievous exaggerations_ so thoroughly lampooned.)

I am confident, therefore, that it shall survive to reach the desk of my publisher at _The Strand_.

* * *

The year was 1881. The year, as some readers may recall, that I began my acquaintanceship with Holmes, and we investigated the mystery committed to the written word as _A Study in Scarlet_.

It was now December. A thick blanket of snow had enveloped the rooftops and streets of our fair city, falling in swirling flurries that, while perfectly pretty to look at, had trapped me inside for quite some time. I did not dare venture out onto the icy pavements, and the dreadful chill had seeped deep into my bones. I judged it altogether too treacherous for my still-temperamental wounds.

Holmes, to my immense surprise and, I confess, immense pleasure, had noticed my discomfort immediately. He did not speak of it; instead, he piled blankets onto my armchair whenever he thought I wouldn’t notice, play-acting ignorance when I looked at him askance, likely assuming I would suspect Mrs Hudson. I elected to let it be, not wishing to embarrass him, even as I treasured this first glance of the great heart he concealed behind his great mind.

He, himself, seemed to enjoy the season far more, scurrying about the flat like a veritable whirlwind, bundled in slippers and two dressing gowns, even as his fingers reddened and stiffened in the cold. I had expected him to fall into one of his black moods, given the lack of problems brought to him for investigation, but instead, he exhibited the same all-consuming energy I had thought only existed when he was on the scent. He left and returned to Baker Street at odd hours but, when I politely enquired as to whether he _had_ found a case, after all, he explained that he was only running some errands.

“Nothing for you to worry about, old boy,” he said with a jovial smile, and so I endeavoured to put it out of my mind.

It was only as we inched closer to the day itself that I came to realise the cause of this…

Well.

One cannot _really_ call it giddiness - to do so would, I fear, be rather uncharitable. It was far too restrained, far too refined, to be referred to with such a childish term. It was certainly, however, a great, almost overwhelming, excitement. A bright thrum of vitality that lit him from the inside outwards, ‘til it shone out from his grey eyes like a candle.

Truthfully, I am almost ashamed of how long it took me to realise. I can only blame the cold weather for dulling my senses, and even that is a rather dubious excuse. However, as 221B acquired in quick succession a wreath, bountiful holly, and a huge pile of cards (from former clients, he told me) that Holmes took infinite pains in trying to arrange around his desk and room, I did catch on.

“Holmes,” I started, only to lose my nerve and beat a hasty retreat to the pages of my well-thumbed novel. It seemed ridiculous to admit aloud that I had never considered him the kind of man to celebrate such a holiday when I had known him for so short a time - even if it did sometimes seem as if we had known each other for far longer.

He looked up from the card he was writing. I would discover, years later, that this was the annual card to his brother Mycroft, who never responded and, indeed, always seemed slightly irritated by the display of sentiment, much to my dear friend’s amusement. (I never did learn whether the annoyance was genuine or, as I somewhat suspected, simply Mycroft’s secret way of entertaining his younger brother.) 

In a moment, he knew what I had been about to say and chuckled softly. I felt myself flush.

“Ah, my dear Watson,” he said, not in the least offended, which was a great relief. “I admit, I am not exactly fond of celebrations. Parties and dinners, for example, are not at _all_ to my taste-” he wrinkled his nose, here, and I choked on a laugh- “and the holiday the criminals of London appear determined to take is most certainly irritating, though, no doubt, it is to the greater good. However, I have always been rather fond of Christmas. After all…”

He trailed into silence and never revealed what was _after all_. I gather he was about to make some mention of his parents or childhood, which he rarely does - and, at that point, had never done. I moved quickly on.

“I am only glad to see you happy, my friend,” I told him, and it was most certainly the truth. I had only seen, by that time, one or two instances of those dreadful black moods that can fall upon him like a stormcloud, and already I had learned to hate them. Already, I had resolved never to leave him alone in them, lest he resort to the cocaine or, as I feared most, seek a more permanent end to his misery. He protested only once against that decision, weakly, and when I reiterated my intentions, I saw the relief in his eyes.

(Thank God, the moods come less these days. Thank God, his suffering is much reduced.)

Christmas Eve dawned and, as I spent the day attempting to write the first - or was it second? - draft of our first adventure with limited success and unending frustration, Holmes spent much of it out and about, though he did pop in every so often to glance over my shoulder and offer his opinions, most of them exasperated and exasperating, though tempered with a small smile.

(Perhaps I had exaggerated too much Holmes’ propensity for criticism. As you shall see, dear reader, though he does love a good grumble, he has always ultimately been supportive.)

(And he reads every single one. Without fail.)

The evening drew in, and Holmes looked me over with glee in his eyes as I hobbled over to my armchair, settling myself in with yet another mysterious blanket added to my already substantial nest. I had intended to go to bed rather earlier, craving the comfort of thick covers and a warming-pan, but something in Holmes’ air stopped me ascending the stairs and, as he smiled, I was glad for it.

“My dear fellow,” he said - almost chirped, in fact. “Will you be prevailed upon to share yet another late night with me?”

“Of course, Holmes,” said I.

He expressed his gratitude heartily, though I was sure he hadn’t had any doubts as to my answer when he asked. I was, however, most curious about his purpose. However excitable he was, and however lacking his common knowledge appeared, I was not deluded into thinking he wished to wait up for Father Christmas, though the image most certainly amused me.

He did not explain on his own accord - of course, he never does, even now - so I was compelled to ask, “Why? Are you expecting trouble?”

“By no means,” he said, a little distracted as he flitted from his chair to the window, peering through the curtains onto white London streets. “But your company is always welcome and our visitors, I believe, have become very fond of you, very quickly.”

He flashed me a small, fond look, and I do not think I flatter myself to presume that his visitors were not the only ones.

“Who are they, then?” I asked, leaning forward a little in my seat, resting upon my stick. (I was not, and am not, in the habit of using my stick indoors, but those first few winters were hard, and sometimes one must bow to the inevitable.)

Holmes practically beamed, squeezing his hands together as he hurried from his perch on the sill to his desk, grabbing a purse and sack which he concealed behind his chair, before throwing himself into the seat. “A surprise,” he announced, voice low like a secret, “or, so they think. But I, dear Watson, have a surprise for them!”

Then, schooling his face into a frown, he arranged himself into his typical position for a good brood, his pipe firmly between his teeth. If I had not just borne witness to his joy, I should have judged him to be in the grip of some tremendous fit of pique.

I quirked an eyebrow at him and he flapped his hand at me, shushing me even as his eyes flashed with mischief. I consented to hold my tongue and he settled back into his seat, sending a long stream of smoke into the air and staring disconsolately at the ceiling.

The door burst open with nary a knock in warning, admitting a rabble of noisy, boisterous boys. I recognised them at once: Holmes’ Baker Street Irregulars, who fell into an unruly kind of order behind Wiggins.

Holmes sighed thunderously, a plume of smoke following, and plucked the pipe from his lips. His pale hand fell lazily towards the carpet as he turned his head, oh so slowly, to face them. “Wiggins,” he said sternly, with just a hint of exhaustion. “Have I not warned you about disturbing my landlady?”

Wiggins looked anxiously. I shrugged, attempting a reassuring smile.

“Beggin’ your pardon, Mr ‘olmes,” he said, ducking his chin.

Holmes always did his level best to spare people the brunt of his tempers, and most especially the Irregulars - “They’re just boys!” he told me one evening. “They’re too young for that kind of bile.” - but they still knew something of the irritability that could precede the worst of his depression. Wiggins’ nervousness was well justified.

“We just thought,” he continued, gesturing to the rest of the boys, many of whom had started to shift anxiously, “that we’d come wi’ the blessings o’ the season an’ such, seeing how it’s Christmas, sir.”

“Is that so?” Holmes’ brow furrowed magnificently. He has the remarkable ability to evoke the memory of the most terrifying professor any boy has ever encountered. One cannot help but quail beneath his piercing gaze, even if one is unaware of the strength of his equally remarkable right hook.

“Yessir,” Wiggins went on valiantly. “Point o’ fact, sir, some of the young’uns brought some cards for you.” He held up the offering: a brown paper parcel, tied up in string, placed cautiously onto the nearby table.

Alas! Poor Holmes! Great actor he may be, but he could hardly be expected to maintain the pretence in the face of such sentiment. A poorer job I have never seen of him before or since. The terrible scowl dissolved into the picture of utter shock - silvery eyes wide, dark brows high, sharp jaw lax - before he lept up, smiling tremulously.

“Oh,” he said softly, “my dear boys.” We could see him fight desperately for control over himself as he gripped every sticky hand tight and shook it well. He swallowed tightly. “My dear boys, you are _invaluable_ , positively wonderful, and most _very_ welcome here, even if we do vex Mrs Hudson so.”

The boys grinned back at him. Wiggins caught my eye and smirked in a way that said he knew I’d been in on it, but that he forgave me. Luckily for Wiggins, he was such a cheerful, reliable, decent lad that I’d forgive him his impertinence in return.

“You must forgive me,” Holmes said. “I thought to have a little fun with you - play Scrooge, you see - but you caught me by surprise, and I find myself impatient.”

“Impatient, sir?”

He clapped his hands together in a rhapsody of joy. His hands were never still in those days, when we were young and unsure and he was always so terribly nervous, though he hid it well. He was constant in his fidgeting, his examining, his twitching and grabbing, his peeling of plasters and scratching at acid scars. It mellowed, somewhat, after his return - or rather, after the nightmares faded. Sometimes I wonder if, even then, he was, consciously or not, aware of the spider that lurked in the shadows, and that it frightened him.

Or perhaps it was only the insecurity of youth.

He presented the sack first, lifting it with the deceptive strength of his wiry arms, and from it, he pressed into each pair of grubby hands a perfectly round orange. Then, as they thanked him, he grinned brightly and darted away towards the purse, and handed them all a shiny shilling to match.

“There,” he said, satisfied as if he had solved a triple locked-door murder. (Perhaps I will, one day, be able to commit that singular case to paper.) “That is a decent present, is it not? I thought to buy some nuts, too, but I feared they might go cold before you arrived - and, besides, I am not sure there are enough in London to feed you all!” He laughed - one sharp, bright chuckle - at his own joke, and they laughed along with him. “Would you care for some tea, instead? I am sure we can ask Mrs Hudson for some - she would forgive your presence, I think. It is Christmas after all.”

The boys shook their heads decidedly.

“No?” He flicked me a look, no doubt aware that nearly all the boys were more than a little frightened of our dear landlady and her broom. “Well, you may at least stay and warm yourselves a while. The fire is hot enough, I trust.”

Wiggins surveyed his ranks and nodded. “Thanks, sir,” he said. “‘S mighty cold out there.”

The boys assembled themselves on the rug before the hearth, huddling close to the fire, and Holmes watched them a little longer, observed by no one but myself, the lines of concentration that so often aged him softening slightly.

Then he shook himself and took up the package of cards they had brought, walking over to my side. He sat awkwardly on the arm of my seat - “Forgive the intrusion, Watson.” - as he unwrapped them carefully. He removed each by turn, holding them where I could see them, too, without straining my shoulder to reach or taxing my leg to stand, so we could look them over together. (Once again, I was touched by his care.)

Each card was hand-drawn, bright and colourful, with messages carefully written in various levels of legibility - though, perhaps, as a doctor, I have little room to talk. Some were addressed only to Holmes, whilst some included a missive for myself, also. And, from one brave lad, a quick note for Mrs Hudson, which Holmes pointed out delightedly.

We came too soon to the end of the pile and he returned them to the paper. I knew they would soon find pride of place around the flat and later, no doubt, a place in his fantastic filing system.

I expected him to move, then. It couldn’t have been comfortable for him, sitting as he was on such a narrow surface. But, to my surprise, he instead let out a quiet sigh, and I felt his arm come around my shoulders. I almost jumped - he is not a man typically given to physical affection, and ‘til that moment, we had never exchanged more than a particularly enthusiastic handshake, save that first meeting where he dragged me over to his work station by my coat sleeve, an incident he later confessed to being rather embarrassed over.

I peered up at his pale face; he looked not at me or the boys, but the window. His throat had started to bob once more and his eyes were shining, though he did not allow himself to cry.

Cautiously, I reached up and patted his hand that lay on my uninjured shoulder. He startled, ever so slightly, but smiled at me.

“Are they not extraordinary, Watson?”

I saw once more the shimmer in his eyes. “They most certainly are.”

“I could not afford to give them a decent gift in previous years,” he admitted quietly, the slightest of shadows falling over him. “It was poor reward for their service, I think. I can only hope this redeems it.”

His uncertainty was dreadful to see, and I tripped over myself to alleviate it, giving his fingers a quick squeeze. “My dear Holmes, I assure you, you have treated them wonderfully. No one can doubt your regard for them.”

The shadows lingered a touch longer before he pulled me to his side in a brief, slightly awkward, greatly impulsive embrace, after which he bounded immediately off in the direction of his violin. I watched, slightly stunned, as he ran his hands over the strings, almost a caress, and struck up the first notes of _We Wish You Merry Christmas_. The Irregulars let out a riotous cry and joined in with a burst of song, young Simpson standing to conduct them to peals of laughter.

He ran through what must have been his whole repertoire of Christmas songs, and when he was done they begged for more, so he played them all again. Occasionally, if the song was not too complex, he would sing too, a pleasant baritone providing lilting harmonies. My voice is nothing remarkable - it is a little hoarse and gruff - but they would not be satisfied until I joined in, so I began quietly and was soon swept up with them, tapping a light beat into the floor with my stick.

I felt Holmes’ eyes on me as I sang and laughed with the children. He was smiling - for a moment, I thought he was simply transported away by the music as he so often was, before I caught his gaze flying over my wounds and the unnatural thinness brought on by my illness. I realised for the first time that my sudden collapses into ill health - especially following that first case - had frightened Holmes more than he let on. I realised how much he wanted me to be well, and happy, and singing.

I realised for the first time that Holmes was - honestly, despite his greatness and my shortcomings - my friend.

I cannot say how long our little concert went on, but by the time the boys were sent on their way home, darkness had fallen, broken only by the gas lamps and the glow of stars shining down. Holmes extracted from each of them a promise to be careful as they went.

They giggled at him, rolling their eyes even as they nodded dutifully, a few even throwing in a salute and “sir-yes-sir!”. He swatted at them, fairly chasing them out the door, curmudgeon to the end, but we all saw the gleam of mirth in his eyes. They called out cheerfully as they went.

“Merry Christmas, Mr Holmes! Merry Christmas, Dr Watson!” And that one brave lad again: “Merry Christmas, Mrs Hudson!”

My companion was in high spirits for the dregs of the evening, humming as he poured us each a brandy before bed. He offered me his arm up the stairs, waving off with ease any embarrassment on my part (“Come now, Watson, there’s no shame in a little help!”) before retreating to his own room with the intention - for once! - of true sleep.

Christmas morning we were greeted with a wonderful breakfast from Mrs Hudson, which we insisted she stay and share. She fussed a little about propriety before consenting. She ate well, joining in our chatter and - when Holmes showed it to her, laughing silently in that singular way of his - we saw that she smiled at the card from the young Irregular, though she tutted a little at the presumption.

“I have tried,” he said with a theatrical sigh, “to explain to the boys that they need not fear you unless they neglect to wash before they come in. Alas! It is in vain. They remain perfectly _terrified_.”

“Likely following your example,” I put in, a little slyly, remembering the panic that followed Holmes’ last failed experiment and the burn upon the table.

Holmes gasped at me, thoroughly and comically betrayed, and Mrs Hudson threw back her head with a great laugh. “As they should, sirs!” she cackled. “As they should!”

She left, still smiling, with the empty tray, though not before stoking the fire with a little tut that we shouldn’t let it get so low. Holmes retreated to his room with a last huff but returned before I had a chance to worry that I had really offended him, clutching a small package and being altogether too exuberant to be angry.

“Here,” he said, thrusting it towards me so quickly he almost smacked me with it. He blushed, looking down abashed, but I only laughed, easing myself out of the chair to take it, a little gingerly.

I looked it over for a moment, wondering if I might employ his methods to guess - or, since he detests the word, _deduce_ \- what it was. Unfortunately, all I could gather was that he was rather impatient to see my reaction. I unwrapped it quickly, snickering at him. 

Nestled within was a fine silver fountain pen, embossed with my initials.

“Holmes,” I said, before my breath caught in my throat. I ran my fingers over the cursive letters. “Thank you.”

“It is nothing,” he said, but I caught his pleased look before it was hidden away. “I only thought that if you insist upon writing that dratted tale of yours, you might at least have a decent pen to do it with.”

(If any amongst the readership is interested, it is still, after all these years, that very decent pen with which I write these dratted tales of mine.)

“Now,” I said, hobbling over to my desk where his gift was waiting. He followed, saving me the trip back, and I pressed a parcel into his hands. “There you are, my friend.”

My gift to Holmes had been long agonised over, especially as I, foreseeing the difficulties of the December weather, decided to purchase it early. I had known him for less than a year and, though I suspected that I already knew him better than most, and was certain that the reverse was true, I had no clue what to get him.

I thought first of a new pipe, or perhaps some tobacco, but no. They seemed so impersonal!

Perhaps a dressing gown? Lord knew it would get some use. But he already had two good ones, his first- and second-best, plus a third for emergencies. Perhaps he had even more that I was yet to see! (For the record: yes, he did.)

For a while, I considered some of those sensation novels he read so voraciously, before I realised that I had no way of knowing which he had read already, nor which he’d be interested in. I similarly dismissed the idea of providing something for his experiments. Though I had some scientific knowledge courtesy of my profession, it was not as specialised as his, and the likelihood was that I would choose wrongly.

If I had known him better, I would have worried far less, as I would have known that, despite his great powers of deduction and reasoning, he never fails to be taken aback by a present. (It is a strange thing, I think, for one so confident in every other aspect of life to be so completely uncertain of others’ regard for him.)

I did not, however, know him better. Therefore, I did the best I could. I procured for him a mystery. I trawled pawn shops and secondhand curiosity stores for things I knew he would like well enough for their own sakes, but with the added charm of wear and tear from which he could deduce the habits of their previous owners.

He opened it, and his face brightened like the Christmas tree I am certain we only narrowly avoided by virtue of 221B being a touch too small for it.

“My dear Watson,” he said, after a long silence where he studied each item intently, his face inscrutable. “No one has ever cared to know me so well as you. My friend-” His fingers tightened their hold on the package and he held it closer to his chest. “I cannot express to you my gratitude.”

I did not think he thanked me only for the gift.

“It was no trouble,” I told him. “Indeed, it is my honour to know you, and to count you amongst my friends.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came to hand. He swallowed convulsively, still as a statue, before he placed aside the box and tore off his dressing gown in a flurry of activity, hurrying to the coat stand.

“If the cold does not trouble you too badly, Watson,” he managed, tugging on his hat, “would you care to join me on a walk?”

I stood as quickly as I could grabbing my coat stick. “Of course, Holmes,” I smiled and, as he studiously avoided my eyes and linked his arm with mine, we strolled out together into the fine Christmas morning.

* * *

Writing this account I came to wonder, how on _earth_ did Holmes get the money for those gifts? We were by no means paupers in those days but, equally, we were in no way well off. I had no practice, merely my army pension, and Holmes’ reputation did not stretch far beyond his own circles and word-of-mouth. I wonder…

Holmes has retired from the chemistry table to his armchair in front of the fire since I began writing. About half an hour ago, his head slipped back and he started to snore quietly, but he has woken since then, blushing and busying himself with his newspaper, sneaking a look at yours truly to see whether I noticed.

“Holmes,” I ask him, then hesitate, wondering whether it might be rather impertinent. Then I brush the thought aside. We are no longer young men, after all, and by this point have known each other for at least a decade longer than we did not. We are not easily offended by one another. Besides, I am certain we have asked each other far worse over the years. “That first Christmas at Baker Street, how did you afford the presents? For the children and I?”

“Ah.” There is a little twitch in his hands - he has a touch of arthritis, now, that makes his joints swell, but it has not affected his violin playing thus far - before he looks at me. “You have observed, of course, Watson, that I have… A certain flair for the dramatic.”

“Certainly I have,” I say with a laugh, for there is no doubt that he is rather understating the fact.

“Yes, well,” he continues with a little sniff. “You will also remember that I was a good deal out and about in those weeks preceding the day itself, whilst you were laid up.”

“Yes, I do.”

He nods. He is stalling, I’m sure. Whatever it was, it embarrasses him still. A flicker of derision, directed inwards, flies over his face before he sighs grandly. “I was a fortune teller, Watson.”

I almost choke. “I beg your pardon?”

Holmes rolls his eyes, twisting over the arm of his chair to better glare at me. “I masqueraded on the streets as a fortune teller. The costume was in one of my safehouses - I forget which one. Each day I would change there into an elderly woman, then take to the busiest streets near the markets and purport to read people’s palms. There lives I could easily deduce, and for their futures, I merely discerned what they wanted most to hear and told them that.”

“Perfectly inspired,” I tell him, holding back a chuckle I am sure will serve only to rile him.

He huffs disbelievingly at me, but I catch him holding back a smirk before he settles himself back into his seat. Foolish man - his spine pops loudly as he uncoils himself, and I see him wince. “It was not,” he says, squirming a little, “the only time I used my abilities in such base ways. When we struggled for rent, it was not unknown for me to become a fortune teller or street magician - I found it paid better than the violin.”

A hot flush of shame overcomes me. “My dear Holmes, if you had told me-”

“You could have done nothing but pawn more of your belongings - do not think I did not notice! - and I would have no more of _that_. No,” he flutters his hand dismissively, “my way was best, I think, and if it embarrasses me, it is only because my poor wounded pride over-inflated itself. But at least, for the sake of my poor pride, I did not resort to seeking Brother Mycroft’s assistance, so it really wasn’t all that bad.”

“If you say so,” I say dubiously.

“Indeed I do,” he says sternly, and then stands. He cannot spring from his seat like the old days, but he does a far better impression of it than I do.

He heads to his desk and retrieves a package, placing it beneath the Christmas tree that takes up a good corner of the room. His knees creak ominously as he stands - I look over to check on him, but he is fine. In fact, he is most certainly smirking.

“And if you were wondering, Watson, you have my blessing to publish the story of that first Christmas.” He catches my disbelieving look: “Come now, I am retired! I don’t need the reputation of being a machine any longer. It matters not to the bees, after all.”

I huff, and he chortles. No doubt the question gave me away - or perhaps I looked at the tree or holly at just the wrong moment. No doubt if I sit too long he will launch into the explanation. Therefore, I reach into my own drawer and take out my own wrapped box. I move slowly to place it beneath the tree, and Holmes’ eyes light up at the thought of the mystery within.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Merry Christmas everyone!
> 
> God, what a _year_. Don't mean to be a cliche, but damn, it's been a weird one.
> 
> I'll confess to a bit of writer's block. I started University this year, so a lot of my energy has been focussed on original work, but I managed to get through 5 drafts of this before I was fully happy with it. But I am happy with it :)
> 
> This isn't the end of my hiatus, I'm afraid. Still, I'm working on it. At some point, I'll work through my dreadful backlog of comments to reply to (I'm so sorry!), and at some point, I'll be back.
> 
> For now, enjoy the story, stay safe, have a wonderful rest of 2020, and good luck for 2021.
> 
> All my love,  
> Phoenix xxx


End file.
